


carrion comfort

by kamisado



Category: Cuffs (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Self-Harm, mentions of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamisado/pseuds/kamisado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The statistics on the spreadsheet are testament to his success, and his colleagues can't seem to work out where the compassion comes from when faced with a victim of a terrible crime. He works late nights with bad coffee, staring at crime scene photos until his eyes cross and tries not to think of what's waiting for him at home.</p>
<p>[a character study about detective inspector felix kane]</p>
            </blockquote>





	carrion comfort

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from carrion comfort by g.m.hopkins. please please heed the tags, there is some fairly graphic self-harm in this fic.

He prides himself on the secrecy.

How he rules CID with an iron fist, cold and unfeeling, in clipped tones and piercing glares. The statistics on the spreadsheet are testament to his success, and his colleagues can't seem to work out where the compassion comes from when faced with a victim of a terrible crime. He works late nights with bad coffee, staring at crime scene photos until his eyes cross and tries not to think of what's waiting for him at home.

_Do you reckon we should invite the boss? Can do, but he'll never say yes._ How he longs to surprise them, to buy them all a drink, and show them how grateful he is. But then they'd ask questions, all the wrong ones, and his perfectly manicured facade would crumble before him. These days he never has to lie because nobody ever asks him, but if they did he knows it would all come spilling out. Nobody needs a mess like that.

How the sex makes him feel alive, how the anticipation and the thrill and the pain pulls him out of his labyrinthine thoughts. Self-consciousness, weariness from work, fear of returning home, all pushed to the back of his mind. Bruises form in the shape of hands on his thighs, his sides, his ribs. Scratches down his back that threaten to crack open and bleed through his nice white shirt the next day. He aches; he smiles. It's part of the thrill, how they'll never guess that someone like him would be into something like _that._

_We are not in control of our own destinies; all we can do is hang on._ He speaks his mind to the trafficking victim in the backseat who has no way of understanding him. All these things he's wanted to say, but never could. He’s never felt so powerless. _I hope you make a go of it._ And he might as well be speaking to himself, and maybe he is, and maybe he will try harder in the future. But he’s pushing down all these _secrets_ , and they're threatening to rise up inside him any second and choke him to death.

How they never see the lines crisscrossing his arms, how he was never organised enough to find a blade, or maybe he could never admit to himself that this was what he was doing now. But he wouldn't stop scratching until the blood was caked thick under his fingernails and dripping down his arms and oh how he would weep because it was never _enough_. How this was a ritual since school, the slightest wrong word and he would shiver with the need to tear his forearms into ribbons, rip himself apart. _You must give no indication that there's anything wrong._

How the scratches would scab over. How they'd hardly scar, and nobody would ever mention it.

How his father has him under his thumb, manipulative and malicious. How he's beaten down first with belts and fists as a kid. Now it's only words, but fuck, it hurts all the same. How he manages with cool restraint, subservience, until one day he can't and he lashes out and now it's him in the crossfire, not his cruel bully of a father. He just can't take it. His father strikes him in the face with what little strength he has; it's enough to cut, to cause blood to ooze down his cheek. He clasps his cheek and turns away, but the tears don't come. He goes to work the next day, but they never ask.

Oh, how he sees them speculating, but they never think to _ask._

He prides himself on the secrecy, but it’s eating him alive.

 


End file.
